The Groundlings

The crow does not fly at midnight. Or at any other time, for that matter.

Indecency in repose.

We are in Mourning, Dove.

Taking a Forever Nap

Martha Perry Foster, squirrel-wife to Christopher and squirrel-daughter to Henry. Remarkably well preserved.

Level 1: The Parking Lot. Failed. Game Over.

Looks like his mongoose is cooked. By a car. Messy.

"Over the river and through the woods..." Well, in the woods -- didn't quite make it through. Probably for the best, though. Grandmother always dries out the turkey and her house smells like a test site for Pall Mall's potpourri ("Stale Tar" scent).

You thought you were so hot with that exoskeleton shell, huh, Crab? Looks like you forgot the main lesson of life while caught up in your hubris: everything dies. I almost said "well, you've got another think coming," but you don't. Dead things don't think, friend-o.

Cicadas? Not such good swimmers. Turns out.

Although he no longer sounds like a duck, I suspect that looking like a *dead* duck is enough to certify him a duck. Well, formerly a duck. Now he's probably just food for worms. More probably, he was food for a fox and has already been pooped out. And everyone who's anyone knows that worms don't eat fox dookie.

So: Flying Squirrel? Not so much, apparently. I told you so, Rocky. Should have thought twice about that. Good try though; you really committed. Ground Squirrel. Turns out.

#DeadSquirrelsOfTumblr

PS. Non-bloody squirrel fur helps squirrels in full rigor slide easily across the concrete.

Regicide: failed flight to Mexico. (I'm aware that it's not a Monarch butterfly....)